


i’d eat my own heart before i’d bare it to you

by Yulicia



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Nero POV, No Dialogue, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29709087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yulicia/pseuds/Yulicia
Summary: Nero tol Scaeva thinks a lot of things about Garlond.
Relationships: Cid nan Garlond/Nero tol Scaeva
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	i’d eat my own heart before i’d bare it to you

Two souls bound, though one tugs against his bonds, pulling and pulling and pulling until the thread has grown thin, fragile and breakable. The other tugs back but there is no passion to it, no fire in the desire to keep the other from leaving. Maybe there had once been, and maybe there could be once more. The embers were not yet ash, but they were far from the flame they had once been. That is what you say. That is what you think. 

There’s a gap between the threads, one burgeoning with time. He—a genius you could only aspire to be—was out of reach. He was always out of reach. He was godly in his presence, lifted high above your perch so that though in vain you may struggle you will never reach the heights that he has been destined to find. It fills your mouth with sand. You have never wanted to see another man in the dirt before so badly. 

You have ever been mirrors, reflections of the self and a display of self-worthiness, bound and gagged by the forces that tie you. It isn’t his fault. It isn’t your fault either. But you have no one else to blame, so that hate latches onto the only fire you still have. 

It would be easier if you didn’t want him. It would be convenient if you didn’t care. To crush his head beneath a mallet would be nothing, his body unfit for the war you have grown accustomed to. Garlond was always soft. You liked that about him, once. If you were to be truthful then you still did, but you’ve swallowed your own lies. Your hands shake with rage as your voice reaches his ears. It’s rage. It’s anger. It’s hate. It’s just that, nothing more. 

The love inside of you feels like a poison, a sickly fluid running through your veins and turning your flushed skin into burns and boils, turning the beating of your heart into distant war drums. It feels like a plague, devouring you slowly from the inside. It feels like death. He makes you feel like a corpse, stick-thin and rotting. If there is no cure, then you’ll live just to spite him. 

Everyday with him is a reminder. It’s a reminder of a time of ignorance, where petty schoolyard squabbles were all you cared about, where being  _ the best  _ was just who could make machines the fastest, not who’s life was worth more. It stings when he is cruel to you. You bet it hurts him back when you are cruel to him, too. Neither of you can stop. You don’t think either of you want too. This is normality now, safe in constantly fighting and bickering. It’s easier than talking. It’s easier than feeling. 

You will prove yourself better. You will prove yourself more worthy of time, and recognition, and glory. If you couldn’t find it in the Empire then this savage land would have to do. Garlond seemed to like it, though you cannot fathom why. Perhaps it is because it warmed his skin, so far from the cold snow of Garlemald. Perhaps it is because this land is kind. This whole thing is beneath you, but if you are to win his games then you must play by his rules. 

He boasts of freedom and yet traps you in the same breath. What a hypocrite. Just like he always was. Just like he always has been. Gods, you hate him. You’ve forced yourself to hate him. He disgusts you. You disgust yourself.

He offers you a hand and you want to slap it away—or cut it off. You think you’d like to see him bleed. You might like the colour of his blood. It would be the messiest thing about him, smeared across his shirtfront and leaking from his wound. He would be weak, and you would be strong. You would have bested him. You’d have won. 

Ah, but that would win you no favours with these allies of his, of course. You would like to say you don’t care for their opinion, but your life lays somewhat within their hands. That is why you do not try. That is why you keep your attacks to the ones that fly from your tongue. That is why. 

You almost die, and that really annoys you. It should be Garlond going first. If there is to be pain then you would like him to have at least  _ some  _ idea of what it felt like. You’re sure he’s already shirked a lot of his own onto you. There was no other explanation to why you felt such sympathy for his winces. 

One day you’ll both die for real, and a part of you hopes you go together—with Garlond just a few seconds first, of course. If he was going to best you at everything else he might as well best you in death. You wanted him gone, but you couldn’t imagine a life without him, and so you would die together. Of course you would. Where else would he go? Where else would you be? 

There’s a tug on that thread and a part of you thinks it says  _ come home,  _ but it’s probably just  _ stop slacking. _ You want it to say  _ stay with me  _ but it probably says  _ piss off.  _ You tug on it back. You want it to say  _ fuck you _ , but it probably doesn’t say that at all. 

Though the thread is fraying, your hands grasp it like a lifeline. Though it cuts you you can’t be rid of it. It’s hate you feel. Your face contorts and your gut twists. It’s hate. It’s hate. It’s hate. 

(It’s not.) 

(You don’t know if it ever was.) 


End file.
